Deserters
by DaniAndTheChocolateFactory
Summary: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger have something in common: They have both run, and they have both been forced to come back. No one understands the desert like a deserter. Dramione, Mature.


_**A/N: First chapter of my newest story… This plot bunny has been killing me for a while so I've finally started bringing it to life! I hope you like, and please review!  
><strong>__  
>Hermione was running from a Death Eater.<em>

_A branch caught her leg, bringing her down with a thud and a sickening crunch as at least one of her fingers broke underneath the force of her fall. The undeniable need to lie there, to sleep and to never ever wake up this war again consumed her. She could imagine the bliss, the tranquillity of _just giving in_.There would be only one more death to witness, and then no pain, no fear and no running away ever again._

_Someone, somewhere, screamed. The real world was upon her again._

_She got up and shot a stunning spell behind her, not looking to see if she had found her target. Hermione started running._

_And kept on running._

* * *

><p>Draco had something in common with Granger.<p>

This was somewhat of a novelty to him; he tended to think of them polar opposites in pretty much everything other than intellect, and perhaps their mutual hatred of all things. He therefore believed that he could be forgiven for not being able to put his finger on what had changed – why the way he looked at her changed – before now.

_Deserters_.

It was strange, really, how 'deserter' looked and sounded so much like 'desert'. Once you got lost in the barren landscape, you were stuck out there. You'd be alone in the unforgiving world and you could shout and scream and kick and fight but at the end of the day it was still _just you_. Draco would know, having run off into the proverbial waste land a year ago in an attempt to escape the Dark Lord, his father, and himself. It had taken him two weeks to adjust to living in a forest in the middle of nowhere, a month to bring himself to kill and eat a rabbit, and two months to give himself up to the Order. He was hungry, tired, and hadn't spoken to another living being in weeks, all of which would have been okay if it hadn't just all been so disgustingly filthy. If there was one thing that Draco Malfoy couldn't stand, it was being unclean (or was it impure?). Running around in the wilderness was not nearly as romantically hygienic as the stories depicted it to be.

So he had retrieved the slip that Snape had pressed into his hand before he had run, and apparated to a blissfully empty safe house in the middle of the night. The look on Creevey's face as _the _Draco Malfoy, Dark-Lord-in-waiting and son of Voldemort's right hand man walked out of the shower with a nod in his direction was one that Draco hoped to treasure for all eternity.

It had gone steadily downhill after that. Several Order members showed up, albeit shockingly late, took him into custody and then into an interrogation room. A punch in the gut, a kick in the head, swiftly followed by a black out and then Snape, red and screaming about something that was probably important.

_GETOFFHIMYOUMORONS!HE'STURNEDHIMSELFIN!I'LLHAVEYOUSUSPENEDEDFORTHIS!GETOFFHIM!_

There had been an undignified grunt as Snape lifted him off to the floor, muttering that he better actually _be _turning himself in or he was going to have his head personally, to which Draco had gurgled something that he had hoped would be recognized as an affirmation of his intentions.

All of which brought him back to here, ten months on, sitting at the Grimmauld Place dining table contemplating Hermione Granger over a piece of Bakewell tart.

A piece of Bakewell tart which was _bigger than her piece. _Only slightly bigger, perhaps an inch squared or so, but bigger none the less. What would have been deemed unthinkable a little more than a month ago was now the reality.

Draco Malfoy was more fondly looked upon than Hermione Granger.

Molly Weasley's somewhat unsubtle way of showing this was expressed in the form of portion size of dessert, another word like 'desert' but with an extra letter. Draco quite fancied how poetic this all was, the literal sweet side of abandoning the dark and joining the forces of light.

Granger had only lasted a month on her own, which also pleased him to no end. He had hung on for double that, and he would never ever have been stupid enough as to get caught by the people he had run from as she had been.

Her spell work had been impeccable, naturally, and she had been careful to leave as little behind as possible when she moved from place to place.

It had been her perfume.

Draco really had no idea what possessed her to wear perfume in a forest whilst completely alone, but he had by now accepted that women tended to be somewhat strange and their actions unfathomable to all rational human beings. He could only imagine the extent to which this effect was amplified by Granger's unfortunate heritage.

It was probably something equally strange and revolting like_ feelings_ which compelled her to walk to the border of her protective spells when she heard Potter and Weasley bumbling along. Weasley smelling – and recognizing – her perfume as she came close enough to touch them was probably down to his crazy, stalker-like tendencies, and Draco had made a mental note never to use the same shower potion twice when staying in the same house as him. Once her location had been identified, even the most advanced spells could not keep out the Shepherds as they took her in.

By law, all deserters who were caught by the Shepherds were punished by a prison sentence which would durate the length of the war, in case they tried to escape again and be caught by the enemy, too willing to give out information. But Potter's word was final, and someone that he had once considered a best friend would not go to jail.

But she was punished, alright. Even Draco could see what it did to her. She spent a lot of her time sleeping, or reading, or staring in to space. She'd walk in to a room and it would go silent, or people would leave, or they would tell her to leave. At meals, she ate alone. Books that she had been reading and put down would go missing. Granger was one of the few to have her own bedroom; no one would share with her. Even Weaslette turned her face the other way when they passed each other in the hallway.

All of which was superb, because Draco was extremely bored. After the initial months at Grimmauld Place filled with obligatory abuse from all of the Gryffindors and the general atmosphere of mistrust were over, people, and especially women, had warmed up to him. He was allowed on menial missions with at least two Order members present, and there would be the occasional conversation at the breakfast table. He did no sleep alone for four nights out of seven. As far as Draco was concerned, this war was pointless and irrelevant to him. If Potter won, he was already in a comfortable position. If Potter lost, he could easily lie and say he'd been kept prisoner by the Order all this time, or perhaps that he'd been trying to infiltrate them to Voldemort's gain this whole time. Either way, he had lost a sense of purpose in life. He needed something to amuse him. Granger had previously been an adequate sparring partner, and to see her go like this was a waste of both intelligent conversation and the chance to rile up the Wonder Boys, which definitely came up in his list of 'Top 5 Activities of All Time'.

When she left to go to the library, he followed her.

She did not notice him, standing in the doorway watching her curl up on the oldest, most worn out armchair in the corner of the room. The grey light of a rainy August afternoon did not play on her hair, or accentuate her cheekbones. It only accentuated the suffocating aura of _aloneness _which enveloped the girl.

"You are not brave."

Startled, she looked up to him.

"You lack courage."

She was avoiding his eyes, but her lips were pursed in anger – was she ashamed?

"You have shown no loyalty, or nerve."

She used a photo to mark her position in the book that she had been reading. Draco almost snorted in disgust as he saw that the photo was of the so-called 'Golden Trio'. Hermione turned to face him directly for his last statement.

"You are not a Gryffindor. You don't belong with them anymore." It was a completely honest and true statement, in Draco's humble opinion. It was almost too obvious to point out but he was just itching to see her reaction:

A deep breath, her eyes to the floor and then again to his face. She walked past him, slowly and deliberately. Turning to look back at him, she asks,

"And where do you belong, Malfoy? Where are your people?"

"It wasn't an insult." He calls after her but she has already gone, retreated back in to her room and away from him. He smiles though, a not particularly kind smile. He knows she has heard and he knows it will eat away at her.

And so it begins.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I'm aiming to update weekly so any reviews are, as always, very much appreciated.**

**x**


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